


An Uncertain Future

by Umbrella_ella



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, English!Belle, F/M, Historical AU, Jacobite Uprising of 1689, Massacre of Glen Coe, Scottish!Rumple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-06-21 13:24:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15558687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbrella_ella/pseuds/Umbrella_ella
Summary: A historical AU set during the early years of the Jacobite Uprising of Scotland. Belle French, daughter of an English nobleman, is sent on a journey by her father through the countryside of Scotland, where she discovers that not all is as it seems.-“Can you not come with me, Father?” she asked, hands finding his forearms as she moved from his grasp to look at him. His eyes, so like her own, were cast down as he rose and shifted away, his boots soft on the hearth as he crossed her room and cast a sad look back.“No, Belle, I’m afraid I must stay.”





	1. I: The Spark

**Author's Note:**

> February of 1692 was not kind to the Scots, or Belle, for that matter. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this first chapter. Please feel free to drop a comment or kudos, or you can visit my tumblr, a-tardis-at-downton if you feel like chatting about this!

The thump of hoof beats outside her window awoke Belle, pulling her from the deep, slow slumber she had been very much enjoying. The firelight had long ago dimmed, embers barely heaving a red glow barely visible to her, and a chill nipped at her toes as her feet dared the icy air.

A thundering boom arose from the great hall, as though someone had taken a battering ram to the door, intent upon invading the household’s sleep. Another followed, and then three more in quick succession.

Her dressing gown retrieved, Belle tossed it about her shoulders, cinching the material around her waist, the warmth of the wool smelling faintly of fire and lavender, the soap of her choice. The tie of the gown in question was soft and her fingers sought out the blue sash as she clutched it in her grip. Visitors, especially this late in the evening, were uncommon, and she nibbled at her lip, puzzling over such an occurrence.

The room was darkened so much so that it was only the familiar tread of her feet on the plush rug that lead her to her bookshelf, where she met the cobbled floor with naught but a hiss. The cold of the stone floor stung as she padded softly to the heavy door of her bedchamber, the pull cool in her hand. The door creaked as she tugged, and she hissed in the quiet, for the sound carried in this stone building, and she could no more shuffle down the corridor in total silence than could a mouse. The walls were lit with wrought-iron candelabras, the waxy remains of the lights dripping onto the stone beneath, smearing the weathered floor in ugly stains of white, to be peeled up later with great determination on the part of the great fort’s staff. Belle shivered then, a gust of wind accompanying the slam of the main door, and hushed voices at the bottom of the mossy staircase. Still and quiet, she strained to distinguish words beyond the low rumble and weave of words that she could not understand.

She longed to call out, to hear her father’s voice, if only to quell the rapid flutter of her heart, but she stayed silent instead, seeking to follow the voices from the main hall into the library, where a great many chairs stood, tall-backed, arranged neatly around her father’s table.

Belle followed the voices then, as they drifted down a long hall, nearly slipping on the bottom stair as her bare feet grew numb with cold. Water ran in rivulets down from the single window, a slick layer of moisture pooling just so. Autumn had been long, and winter was already dreadfully cold, she thought as she looked out onto the moonlit grounds, snowy banks of white creeping along the tender heather, long turned brown and limp, in the field below. The countryside was in the thick of winter, cold and barren and far too lonely for her taste; she hated it here, here where all she could do was wander the grounds and the house, and it was as though the hulking great stones of the very estate were shackled to her ankle, tugging her back at every opportunity. She knew no one beyond the servants, and they, though kind and true, were beholden by their station, and so she could not play cards with them or ask them to tell her stories of their childhoods.

The house, then, was lonely. Scotland was lonely. _She_ was very lonely.

She crept through the parlor, into the main hall, and swept, with a careful grace that belied the nerves growing in her belly, towards the library. The great halls seemed to swallow the shadows, and even her woolen dressing gown could not keep the chill from her skin nor the cold from her bones, and Belle shivered in the sudden draft that swept up, the candles doing little to light the way for her. A few more fumbles and a gentle hand tracing the wall led her to her destination, and she paused, just outside the door to the library, aged oak staring back at her, even as she attempted to hear the hushed timbre of the mysterious visitor.

“…an’ I’m telling ye, tha’ cannae happen. This won’t end well for ye both if ye stay. Ye know tha’. I’m only warnin’ ye fer the sake o’ tha’ lass of yers. This is no place for an Englishman, no matter his leanin’s. Ye must leave, and soon.”

A firm thump and a grunt sounded out, and then, finally, her father’s voice.

“Do you not think that I want to leave this Godforsaken place? Do you not think that I want to do just as you say and take my daughter and leave? I’ve a duty to this place! Only Belle can go. And Belle knows nothing, and you mustn't say a word, not until it’s unavoidable. You’re not to speak a word of this to her. Promise me.”

Her father was angry, she knew, his voice booming and tremulous all at once, and she shrunk back into the shadows lest the door fling open.

The stone wall at her back, her hands shook as she thought through what she had heard. She hadn’t been allowed in the village below the house for quite some time, but then, her father hadn’t trusted her to leave his side in these apparently trying times. The grey in his hair had begun to fade, turning to a pillow-like tuft of downy white, and his hands shook often. His Majesty, crowned but three years past had willed they remain here in the large house to maintain an English presence, though Belle’s skin itched with the desire to return home.

By all rights, however, it seemed that her desire meant very little to the King and his Parliament, and consequently, Belle and her father were stuck here, deep in the northern countryside of Scotland.

A heavy weight set her heart plummeting to her stomach, twisting and knotting and left her breathless as though a bodice had been tied too tightly. Her feet carried her quickly up the stairs, and she fled the chill of the damp walls around her, burying herself in the downy wool covers of her bed, still warm from when she had last left it. Her blood pounded in her ears, and a great thrum sounded in the quiet of her room. Belle squeezed her eyes shut, then, trembling against the fear of what would come next. A few moments passed, and the trembling in her hands lessened, her breaths deeper and controlled— her calm state was soon disrupted by a knock at her door, and her father entered, hulking and great in the doorway, though his pallor was sapped of all color and his face set in thin, grim lines as she stirred, peering over the covers at him as he perched on the side of her bed.

“Belle, darling, I’m sorry I don’t have more time, but you must rise, and pack. Everything that must go, take it— leave everything else behind,” his voice was quiet, resigned, as he took her hand in his, and his smile did not reach his eyes, “I must stay here, but I need you to go home. You leave at sunrise.”

His firm words brooked no argument, and she was not inclined to do so, though the words of protest burned at the back of her throat.

“Father, I—”

“My beauty, I need you to listen to me,” he pleaded as his fingers traced the curve of her cheek, “You must leave. I’ll send you with a letter for a man named Keith, and you must see that it reaches his hands, do you understand me, child?”

Though she was far from a child now, her cheeks rosy with her twenty three years, Belle dared not argue. Her nerves jittered at the thought of what this task meant, and her eyes prickled with tears as she let out a cry, her arms flung about her father’s shoulders. He smelled of cold and sweat and whiskey and warmth, as he always had, and the skin at his neck was warm and stubbled. She pressed her face to his neck, much as she had done years ago when she used to have nightmares that would wake the house with her screaming, though she took little comfort in this now. Instead, a prickle of dread rose up her spine, and it took much to loosen her arms from round his neck.

“Please, daughter, do as I say.”

He held her tightly one last time, squeezing her small frame to him, as though he might lock this very moment in his memory forever.

“Can you not come with me, Father?” she asked, hands finding his forearms as she moved from his grasp to look at him. His eyes, so like her own, were cast down as he rose and shifted away, his boots soft on the hearth as he crossed her room and cast a sad look back.

“No, Belle, I’m afraid I must stay.”

The slam of her bedroom door echoed in her mind long after she had sprung into action, her hands shaking as she rummaged through her things. The wardrobe beneath the window was flung open and her clothes were strewn about. The finer dresses, the ones laced with gold filigree, were left behind in favor of her riding clothes, plain dresses of wool and cotton, and trousers that her father had always disapproved of, though she had suspected that they might be useful. That time had come. Her alabaster skin was pimpled with goosebumps as she removed her gown and then her petticoat, the soft materials pooling at her feet as she slid into her worn leather trousers, lacing the breeches and casting about for her riding shirt, tucking the hem into the leather, and resuming her work, filling a satchel with bundles of clothing and a single book.

She could live without the others, but this one, with its artwork and adventure-filled pages, this one had always been a favorite. The clasps on the satchel were difficult to work, her fingers fumbling with tension and a grief that rendered her arms and legs useless. She would never see her father again, not if he did as he said he would and gave her a letter— not if he chose not to come with her when it mattered most.

Belle shook the thought from her mind as she bundled up the last of her belongings, slinging the satchel around her shoulder as she bent to retrieve her last, most important item. Her mattress was heavy, but her arm wedged perfectly beneath it, fumbling around for what she sought. Her heart thrilled in a small victory as she clasped the smooth pommel in her hand, drawing out the small dagger and sheath with a grunt.

Her heart beat out a reel as she watched the way the hilt gleamed in the near-morning light. Dagger resting heavily on her belt, burning into her hip with its symbolism, she cast a glance outside, the winter morn stretching its lazy fingers along the horizon.

It was nearly dawn, and nearly time to go.

Belle slipped her hands into her hair, bundling it to the back of her neck and tying it neatly before surveying her room once more, suddenly feeling much displaced in this new world. The grey, drab walls that had only just felt like a prison sentence became a safety for her, something that she did not dare leave now, for who knows what awaited her from this moment forward?

With a finality and an unsure step, she crossed to the corridor and wrenched open the heavy door that separated her from her new circumstance. Bounding down the stairs, Belle’s boots were soft on the stone, scuffing along as she burst into the hall.

Her father stood, dour and grave, with two of his finest men, awaiting her. Maurice swept towards his only daughter, tears welling in his eyes.

His hands were cool and shaky as he cupped her face.

“I’m so sorry, my Belle, so sorry. We don’t have much time— they’re coming.”

“Who, Father? Who is coming?” she asked, voice warbling with unshed tears.

“There’s no time, you must go,” he said, panic rising like bile as he fetched the letter from the stand nearby and pressed the heavy paper into her palm, curling her fingers around it, “my beautiful daughter. May your journey be swift and may God keep you safe. Be brave, Belle.”

With that, her father pressed a kiss to her forehead and turned away, dropping his head in sorrow and reaching for the mantle, as if he knees were weakened by the mere idea of being without her.

She turned then, chin shaking and head held high, and with the escort of the two silent men at her side, she stepped into the brisk winter morning. Her breath puffed out in small clouds of white, and her heart rent itself in two, even as she tucked the letter, waxen seal and all, into her satchel, burying it beneath cotton and wool.

The heavy fabric of her riding coat was suddenly far too thick, almost suffocating, and sweat sprang to her skin at the thought of leaving this place, of leaving her father to face his unchangeable fate. Belle huffed out a small breath, straightened her spine, and followed the men to the stables.

The steed whose reins were hurriedly stuffed into her hands was black, greying at the mouth and ears, and she felt awful, suddenly, for this horse could not carry her for the long journey ahead, and whispered a prayer into his ear, hand soothing at his neck. The great horse snorted, almost in discontent, as Belle mounted, her heart in her throat as she cast a last look at the estate.

The very house itself was lonely, sat on a hill overlooking the village below, and if she looked beyond it on a crisp, clear morning, she could see a great river flowing past, small streams feeding it. Ballachulish was a small but bustling community, though through the grey fog that rolled through the small valley, she could not see the cottages nor the river that roared on despite the winter.

John, the first man was called, was a burly man, whom she had seen in the stables from time to time, mending shoes with a great hammer clanging away. Now, his smith’s hammer was at his side, a _sgian dubh_ at his boot, ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice. His smile wry and tight, he suffered her a saddened glance.

“’m sorry ye have tae be leavin’ tha’ house. I’ll go wi’ ye tae ‘im, you’ve no need tae worry; yer father was nice enough tae me through th’ years.”

His voice struck her as familiar, now, the voice of the mystery man that had called so early in the morning.

Belle nodded, and if her voice broke when she offered her thanks, he said nothing.

The second man, who trailed behind them, was smaller in stature, though he was lean and wiry, and Belle wondered if he’d ever killed a man before. The hard, stony gaze that surveyed the snow-covered brush made her suspect that he had. She had seen him on the grounds from time to time, and if she remembered correctly, around the village, offering his sword and stealth to those who wished to thieve cattle and sheep from others.

Her lips parted, his name falling from her tongue, unsure, “James, I—”

A great cry rose out from the hills behind them, echoing through the glen and setting Belle’s heart athunder.

“They’re here. Quickly, girl, make haste,” John breathed out, green eyes wide and face flushed. With a squeeze of his boots, his horse sped into a gallop, hooves thudding mercilessly through the mud, flinging snow and ice all about. Belle followed suit quickly, unwilling to hold them up, panic roiling in her gut as James took up pace beside her.

One man, lone and tall, rumbled down the hillside, his kilt swinging as his feet flew, and suddenly there were many of them, a small clan of Scotsmen descending onto the property, fleeing as though their lives depended on it.

Belle’s stomach twisted as her father, a small presence now, a mere dot in the distance, swung open the door to the estate and stood on the steps, watching in horror as men thundered by.

A sea of red and tartan loomed at the crest of the steep hill, a stark image against the white snow, and in a moment, their rifles were raised, and the blades that the Scotsmen held were glinting against the snow, and Belle’s mouth ran dry, even as her horse still ran. Her father, still stood out on the steps, cast a look down the road, as if to look for her, and Belle’s blood froze, heart leaping into her mouth.

A sharp call for the men to fire upon the fleeing warriors cut the icy air, and in a single beat of her heart, a cracking sound ripped through the still morning; men crumpled like paper dolls, falling to the ground, limp and unmoving. Belle watched in horror as her father jerked funnily, a spray of blood dribbling down his messily tied cravat, as if he’d spilled his wine for the thousandth time, and he lolled forward, slow and oddly, before falling to the ground.

“No!”

The harsh gasp ripped from her lips and left her mouth agape as she watched helplessly, the men advancing slowly, picking their way through the hillside as they neared the property.

The snow bloomed swathes of red beneath heaps of tartan and steel.

Her horse halted, her reflexive tug on his reins stopping him on the road— _no, no, this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen,_ her mind cried out, but the numbing shock swallowed the thought as though it were merely trivial, her pulse beating out an anguished roar in her ears.

Belle felt as though her heart had been tugged from her chest, the sting of it rendering her mute. Her breath burned in her lungs and she was helpless to watch as her father lay, still and pale, on the steps of her estate. Fingers tight and knuckles aching around the leather of the reins, Belle felt her eyes blur with tears, but she did not blink, for nothing now was worth seeing.

“Lady Belle, we must keep going," someone called out.

And because she did not think to argue, because she could think of nothing but the way her father’s feet had danced on the steps before he fell, she went with them, her heart aching with fear of the unknown.

 _Be brave_ , her father had said, and so she would be.


	2. II: Adrift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle and her companions stumble upon a horrific sight; Belle learns the truth about her father.
> 
> TW: Description of dead bodies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll meet Rumple soon, no worries. For now, though, Belle has some serious soul-searching to do.

Belle had not slept in three days, or so she felt. In truth, it was as though sand had gathered beneath her eyelids, scraping and creeping into her vision, blurring and dimming at every twist and turn. The landscape around them was barren and icy, and there were but only a few clusters of trees in which to seek shelter. Her blankets held no warmth, or if they had, she did not feel it. Now, three days into the deep, hilly countryside of a snow-covered foreign land, she said very little, and ate less. The smoked meat that had been folded into her palm looked sad and unappealing, and her stomach whirled.

Stumbling to her feet, Belle sought refuge behind a naked birch, thin and creaking beneath her grip, and promptly emptied her stomach.

“Child, it’ll do no good fer ye tae waste away,” John offered, his voice cutting through the quiet clearing, even as she swept her gloved hand across her lips.

She was colder now, all warmth seeming to have left her the moment her father had crumbled to the ground, a great pillar giving way and collapsing the very foundation of her life. Her very purpose had waned, as though the iron in her bones had rusted over, red and decaying and weakening with each day that passed.

Her body sank to perch on the stone that had warmed near the fire, and she stared, listless, into the crackling yellow flames.

The fire, small as it was, burned bright and warm, and Belle stared over at James, still quiet and offering little over the course of their travels, at the way his eyes were focused in the middle distance, head tilted, as though listening intently. His hand, she noted, had very rarely left his broadsword, the tartan of his kilt hiked neatly across his knees as he waited for an unseen enemy. Belle wondered at the way his skin did not ripple with cold, springing up the hairs on his legs, but, she supposed, he was used to this unyielding chill.

John cleared his throat, brushing his hand through shaggy red curls, damp with winter cold. “Ye may want tae eat, lass, or at th’ very least, drink this,” his hand drifted to the skin on his hip, and his offered it to her.

The firelight flickered across his face, and his smile broadened as she took it. Cool and heavy in her grip, whatever was in the skin sloshed a bit as she raised it to her lips, intent on appeasing her escort.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, even as she tipped it back. The warmth spread through her a fire, and she sputtered out a cough, the whiskey setting a burning path as it warmed her belly. Belle cast a withering look across the fire and shoved the skin back to her companion.

He shrugged, a mirthful laugh erupting before he sobered. “Looked like ye could use some; it’ll help ye sleep, ye ken.”

Her scowl remained, even as she opened her bedroll an hour later, her eyes heavy and her heart empty. Though her sleep was even and deep, in her mind, blood ran down paths, down the halls of the grey, crumbling estate, and she called out to her father. No one answered, even as she begged and begged.

She woke some hours later, the smell of smoke turning her stomach. The dark winter morn encroached on their small camp, and Belle sat hunched in her blankets, wool gathered about her shoulders, watching as John and James working in seamless tandem, breaking down their small camp and burying what little remained of their fire— better not to be tracked, John had asserted on the first day. She thought of very little outside the crack of rifles and smell of black powder, and her hands shook as though they themselves were stained red with her father’s blood.

She could think of little else.

John and James didn’t mind the lack of help, or rather if they had, neither had said a word against her. But now, she wondered at the way the two of them made such haste— their bedrolls were hurriedly tossed up and drawn to their saddles, and their movements frantic as she joined them in preparing her own horse. The mountainous path they had taken slowed them, she knew, and her horse was slow already, his gait slow and his legs weak. Before too much longer, she would surely have to say goodbye to Phillip, thusly named after her tutor in London, his salted mane reminding her of Master Phillip, who wore his hair shorn, greying at the temples, smelling of tobacco and mead.

It would take them perhaps three days more to traverse the rocky, snow-covered hills of the highlands and reach the lands claimed by Clan Keith. Her bones were heavy at the thought, and she was desperate for the comfort of a good tea and a warm bed. Already, the rocky hillsides that were slicked with ice were tiresome, and the path around the jagged stone of many a mountainside was long.

When the sun was highest and the shiver had long since abandoned her bones, giving way to a dozing exhaustion, they came upon a small farm, the fence set far from a small cabin and the sparse brush at the foot of a steep rise. Black smoke painted the sky with ash, blotting out the white and sending a foul smell across the land.

“ _Mcah na galla!_ ” John murmured, his face ruddy as he slipped from his steed, his arms flailing wildly at his side as he ran across the expanse towards the burning homestead. Belle followed, her breeches affording her freedom of movement as she followed close behind; her fingers tight round the pommel of her dagger, though there was little she could do with it. Her steps were slowed by the deep snow that seemed intent upon swallowing her whole, and she fell more than once, but she clambered to her feet determinedly, following her companion.

Soon, it was clear that her haste was of ill use, for three bodies lie in the doorway, their gaping maws twisted and their flesh blackened by the heat of the flame. A man, she supposed, clutched at his chest in a last attempt to gasp for air, and a slighter frame, narrower and smaller, clutched a small bundle to her chest. Nothing moved for a long while, not John, nor James, who had followed them, and Belle shook with terror.

“Who would do such a thing?” Belle cried out, grief blistering in her veins, and twisting her vision, tears stinging at her eyes.

“The fuckin’ English, lass,” James spoke for the first time, his voice soft, and if Belle hadn’t been so outraged, she might have been shocked at the way his words carried on the wind, barely loud enough to be heard, though he was standing just beside her, his hands clenched.

“Impossible! We—” Belle swallowed; she had never felt so removed from the actions by the English as she did now— first, her father, and now, these people, this family, “They would never do such a thing!”

John whirled on her, a deep rage in his blue eyes, normally so kind and friendly, “But they did, did they nae? Did ye nae see them kill yer father? Or the men who ran? Do ye no’ see the babe, wee and dead a’ his maither’s breast? Fuckin’ cowards, th’ lot o’ them!”

Belle felt a pull of nausea in her stomach, and the bit of salted meat she’d managed that morning burned at the back of her throat, threatening to desecrate the ground upon which she stood. It felt wrong, somehow to stand upon once fertile land, now leeched with death, to soil it with her pity and a heave of her stomach. Heavy-footed and limbs weak with buzzing thoughts, she thought of the men at the peak of that hill, their guns raised and their coats gleaming red against the winter dawn as she willed herself to stumble back to the horses. The great steeds were upset, tense, their eyes widened and their snorts coming in fast, agitated breaths, hooves digging into the frozen ground below. Stroking at their manes, Belle hummed out an old melody, her own mind clouded with frantic thoughts.

What it all meant, she’d no idea. She was no longer an Englishwoman by loyalty— her father’s death had erased any compulsory loyalty to the Crown, though, she supposed, it might have been a mistake, but a whisper in her head asked a terrible question. _Why go through the estate property then? Why not warn her father?_

Her fingers carded through the coarse hairs on the horses, soothing and gentle, trembling though they were.

Belle had no loyalty now, not to the English, and not to the Scots she travelled with. Her eyes filled with tears at the thought, because if she had felt lonely before, in the safety of the stone walls of her father’s estate, she was well and truly alone in the world now. Nationless, with no loyalties binding her, she had only her father’s dying wish, buried deep in her satchel now, and that was her only thought. Clan Keith was far to the north, and she intended to deliver this letter and— well, afterwards, she wasn’t sure what she might do.

The three of them broke bread in silence that night, and Belle ate sparingly, mind whirling with questions. James and John’s hands were blackened with soil, and their dirks lay at their feet, snow around them filthy from the graves they had dug. Their camp was near the farm, and the acrid smell lay heavy upon them. She took a small, cursory bite of the loaf, her teeth working at the crust, and tucked the rest away.

Perhaps later she might be hungry.

The first question sprang unbidden from her lips and far too loud in the quiet. She had thought on it for a good while.

“Why did they kill him? My father? They were Englishmen, no?”

John sighed, his gaze lost in the way the flames flickered and guttered with the gale of wind. Crumbs stuck to the hairs of his beard. His eyes closed, and for a brief moment, Belle though he mightn’t have heard, for her voice was muffled and muted by the ache of sadness that rose in waves, her throat clenching at the thought of her father, his eyes kind and bright.

“Yer father was a traitor to th’ Crown, lass.”

The words boomed out in the silence, hanging like a cannon blast in the still air. The brush around them rustled, and Belle drew her cloak in tighter, a chill running through her, the idea of her father, a traitor, lancing like a spear through her lungs. All the air in the world could not fill them, because bands of leather seemed to press in on around her throat, and she could not breathe.

“No,” she shook her head vehemently, “he wouldn’t, not my father.” Even then, her words fell uncertain into the space between them, and he remembered his words.

_You're not to speak a word of this to her._

“But the letter—”

“Is to the Laird of Clan Keith, Jacobites, tae th’ last wee bairn. Your father didnae want ye near th’ border, but he needed to get the money tae the clan somehow. The men who died that morn, includin’ yer father, werenae loyal tae th’ Crown, lassie, and ye must deliver that parcel, unless ye’d like tae betray yer father’s last wish. He knew the English were comin’, and English blood or nae, a traitor is a traitor. They were comin’ for ‘im, an’ he knew.”

Belle sprung back from the fire almost comically, as though John, with his gentle hands, who had been nothing but kind to her in this cryptic journey, had slapped her. Her hands shook and she concealed them, folding them to her chest, feigning a cold spell as a shiver of realization trickled into her mind. Her father, her home, barren and hated though it was in her mind, her loyalty, had all been ripped away in one fell swoop, and she felt a thunderous rage pour into her blood, boiling and festering.

“Why would he— Why?” Her cheeks heated with a seething anger, spilling over into her heated words.

“Why was half a clan slaughtered in front o’ yer eyes? Fer th’ revolution. Fer th’ rightful king. Th’ man who sits on th’ throne now doesnae deserve the velvet he sits ‘is arse on.” John scoffed, his mouth twisting into a sneer, eyes glittering with derision at the words.

Belle sat back, defeated and utterly lost in the sea of turmoil that tugged her under. Biting back a defense for the English king, she pulled her lips together, pressing into them with trembling fingers. Her father was a traitor to the English crown, the very crown he had served for thirty odd years, the crown which had trusted him with His Majesty’s bidding, even after it passed to His Majesty William III, even after James II and VII had abdicated. But then, Belle supposed, if her father had heard whispers of a revolution nearly three years ago, when the Parliament had declared such an abdication, and he had been unfailingly loyal to the house of Stuart, he had been in a opportune position to assist in the rumblings of a war on the horizon. She could not go back to England, then; they would brand her traitor too, even if she threw her father’s letter into the fire here and now and begged for mercy.

There would be no future for her, lest she stay in the highlands of Scotland, doomed to live out a lonely life, unloved by the English for her traitor father, and unlovable by the Scots for her English accent. Doomed to a life of loneliness, Belle was adrift on the sea, a boat set upon the high sea and swept beneath the currents of a war that rolled towards the land.

The books she had read as a child had always comforted in her in times of uncertainty, and so, balancing her satchel upon her knees, she unlaced it, retrieving the heavy tome within. The art was intricate, set in gold leaf and reds and blues, the letters sharp and dark, the shadows of dusk blurring the ink and Belle squinting in the half-light. Her fingers found the edge of the page, and the paper crumpled beneath her eager thumb. The letter, slipped into the book the day before to shield it from the elements, mocked her, her father’s script neat and precise, the wax seal red and untouched.

Her heart rent in two.

She would find the answers she sought, if not in the pages before her, then perhaps in the heavy script of her father’s letter.

“How much further? Until we reach the laird?” The question surprised even her, and she studiously ignored the grunt of shock that colored John’s reply.

“Two days, if we ride slowly. One if we let yer horse roam and ye ride wi’ James.”

Belle shifted, letting her book fall shut before tucking it away.

“We’d best get some rest, then. It’ll be a long day. We’ll need to start early.”

Belle would serve her father’s last wish, her own future uncertain, resting on the will of Clan Keith. The ground was hard and frozen beneath her as she settled into her bedroll, naught but a layer of wool between her and the elements. John and James were still, save for the sound of a whetstone on a blade, and the quiet of the night lulled her into an uneasy slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a review, and if you like, come talk to me on tumblr, especially for TMI Tuesday! I expect the third chapter to be up by Thursday at the latest.


	3. III: A Deal to be Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle reaches Dunnottar Castle and meets the Earl Marischal, who has no love for the English; Belle is saved from an uncertain fate by a mysterious man in the Earl's employ. 
> 
> TW: William Keith, 8th Earl Marischal, is based on the Sheriff of Nottingham and he's a horrible person. William Keith himself was not a horrible person insofar as I could tell, but because of the name, I couldn't resist melding the two together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoyed all of the research that went into this chapter, from exploring the ruins of Dunnottar to narrowing down 17th c names for the characters. This is highly fictionalized, and as such, I'm pretty sure that zero of this would ever actually have happened, but it's fanfiction, so suspension of belief is a little par for the course. Please enjoy!

She had thought that perhaps the comfort of seeing others, of seeing the horizon breached by the great stone of Dunnottar Castle might set her heart at ease, but Belle squirmed in the saddle, shifting against the sudden tremor of fear in her heart. James’ arms tightened round her sides, hands clutching at the reins. His chest was warm at her back, and she sunk into the comfort he unknowingly offered. 

His breath feathered over her hair, sending her dark tresses tickling against her neck. 

“Now, lass, dinnae be afeard, ye ha’ m’ sword, and John’s too.”

Belle turned from the mesmerizing view of the castle breaking the monotony of the white, wintry sky to view her other companion, still and quiet as his blue eyes peered up at the great fortress before them. His mouth was set in a grim line, and his shoulders set, as though pressing against a weight Belle could not see. Daring to peer into the lives of the clan she was tasked to seek refuge with, she let her azure gaze wander, though her hands shook on the pommel of the saddle as her knuckles whitened. The curious farmers and smiths had hushed, the bustle of their work suddenly still and quiet but for the sound of a single hammer on metal, clanging away and breaking the heavy silence. A babe squalled and she was heartened for it, though she knew not why. Perhaps because of all she had seen in the few days since fleeing Glencoe, or perhaps because she took heart at the feeble smile the young woman offered her as she bundled the wee one close to her breast. Whatever it was, she straightened slightly in the saddle, a slip of chilly wind sliding between her riding companion and herself. Beyond the edge of the castle, the roar of water lapped against slate, the spray of the waves a crown against the white of the sky, and Belle shuddered with the breeze, mouth agape. She had never seen so much water, angry and crashing upon the great rocks below, and she felt akin to it somehow. 

Belle’s breeches clung to her uncomfortably, the sweat of their travels pooling at the back of her thighs and staining the underarms of her linen shirt, though the anxiety of the road ahead had not helped at all. Her shoulders were twisted and knotted tightly and Belle turned her neck to alleviate the pain. It was as though her grief had knotted up her insides, manifesting into a physical pain. 

The great rattle of the gate met her ears long before the pair of horses had rounded the final twsit in the winding road, pulling her from her thoughts.

“William Keith is the Earl Marischal, and the laird of these lands; be careful what ye say, lass. Jacobite he may be, bu’ he doesnae appreciate the English anymore than most Scots. In fact, best let John speak, hm?” James spoke quietly, lest his instruction betray the reasons for their voyage to mouths that loosened easily. A cottage door nearby opened and a lad no more than ten peered out. The thatch on the roof had seen better days and sagged under the weight of the snow. 

The coastline of Scotland was no stranger to hard winters, but the village folk, however, were captivated by the appearance of strangers, enough so to brave the chilly winter air. The road to the castle seemed to stretch on, but as they neared the great residence, Belle craned her neck, ignoring the pang of such a movement, in an effort to study the narrow windows and the mossy stone that had turned green long ago, eager to take in all she could. 

The mouth of the entrance to the castle grounds was small, an outcropping of stone set against a tall rise of rock, and Belle swallowed her fear when John clicked his tongue beside her and drew his steed ahead of James. The path through the grounds was narrow and cobbled, and the click of horseshoes echoed over the quiet stretch of the land. A kilted man approached and, with his arms crossed over his burly chest, spoke in demanding voice, his burr thick and rough. 

“Who a’ ye?” The man blew out a huff of air, and his face was reddened, the tip of his nose blue in the nip of frosty breeze. 

“We’ve business wi’ the Earl, MacIntrye, and ye’d do well to step aside now,” John spoke, his low timbre more serious and sure than Belle had ever known him to be. 

“An’ just who demands tae see ‘is Righ’ Honora—”

John heaved a shallow sigh, high and nasally, doffing his boineid, and Belle blinked in surprised at the balding pate of John’s head beneath it. 

“Ye ken who I am, Alisdair, and I dare ye tae say I’ve no righ’ tae be here,” Belle watched as Alisdair, a great stone of a man, paled, and shifted, his hands falling to his belt where it looped around his great kilt, “Now, ‘m here tae see th’ Earl, and you’ll do well to seek ‘im out. Fresh linens are tae be prepared for m’lady, and the horses should be seen tae as well.” 

Belle shrunk as Alisdair’s curious gaze flicked to her, and James shifted behind her, his hand clasping her wrist. 

His grip bade her quiet, and so, she dipped away from Alisdair's searching look, and studied the pommel in her grasp. In a moment, a whistle cracked the still air, and a pair of disheveled young boys came running. A boy of eight summers, no more, took the reins from an unhappy James, who grunted as he hefted himself to the ground. Offering help to Belle, his hand was cool, even through the gloves she wore, and his smile was tired as he helped her down. A full head taller than the young boy that tugged at their horse’s reins, she grinned at the boy, hoping to bring some light to the dark eyes of the child. Instead, she was met with nothing, his eyes averted, and soon, she was hastened to the door of a large building set in front of her, it’s stonework smooth and neat. An uproarious laugh belted out into the courtyard, and Belle found herself almost smiling in answer. John said very little then, only leading the pair of them towards the great doorway, which groaned its way open upon their nearing, the steady hand of a burly young man helping it along. The wooden door was large, old, and clanged awkwardly in the quiet as it shut behind them. Alisdair stood patiently at the foot of a winding stair, and Belle stomach grumbled in the silence. The heat of an embarrassed flush crept up her neck, and John offered her a crooked smile, his eyes twinkling. 

“No’ tae worry, lass, we’ll get ye fed soon enough. Firs’, we must see th’ Earl. His Lairdship doesnae like tae be kept waiting, and certainly nae fer this.” 

John led the way once more, seemingly familiar with the layout, as he took the twists and turns of the corridors with a sure step, not once stopping. Belle was grateful for the leather riding trousers, as she had to stay in step with the pace of the much taller man, and a petticoat and skirts would certainly make it more difficult than it already was. If she received a few odd looks and stares from the few servant girls she’d seen, their skirts blackened round the knees or stained with millet and seed, and their eyes quickly lowered, she didn’t mind. The stone walls awash in orange flickers of light, Belle squinted through the dimmed light. Though it was day, winter light had yet to touch the darkened halls of the stead, and Belle ran a hand through the locks of her hair, messy and unkempt from three days travel. An older man nodded in passing, and Belle felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand. His hair was thinning, and his shoulders sagged; she paused for a moment, her heart in her throat, and—

“Papa—” the hushed endearment left her before she could swallow it, and James paused at her side, offering a sympathetic fold of his lips, the edges turned down in a sorrow-filled frown. 

“Nay, lass, yer faither is gone,” he offered in the long silence of the hall. Her eyes prickled with tears, and she shuddered against the well of grief that pressed in on her. 

“I— of course. I wasn’t thinking. Come, let us move quickly. There are far too many corridors to get lost in, and I’m afraid John might leave us behind.” 

Belle stiffened, her eyes glossing over the old man who she had seen so much of her father in, and her boots, once rooted to the flagstones, scraped along the stone, intent upon catching up to John. James was just behind her, his dark hair falling forward as he bowed his head to the passersby. A flickering torchlight beckoned her, and a low voice, John’s, she thought, was heard from a distant room. Once the pair rounded the archway into the room, all fell silent. 

The merry man, usually so robust and genial stood at the foot of a dais, shoulders taught beneath the hard stair of a man only perhaps five years his elder. 

The small room was occupied only by a few other men, their faces orange and waxen in the warm glow of the torches that hung along the walls. Belle flushed, distinctly aware of the way her entrance, yet unnoticed by the man sat upon the platform, was tracked by every eye in the room. A few of the men gawped at her, eyes tracking her legs in their leather trousers, and she felt as though she were on display, and wished for nothing more than a dress, if only to cease their gawking. One man leered, his grin crooked and gapped, and his beady eyes settled on her small chest, his face twisting into an uncomfortable grin as he appraised her. 

“Well,” the voice of the man seated on the chair boomed out, smooth and silken as it rippled through the room, commanding the attention of all, even her admirer, “who is this wee one, ay, John?”

Dark eyes appraised her, and Belle shifted beneath the Earl’s penetrating gaze. John stood tall, and for a moment, Belle thought he might try to hide her from view, and whether it was to protect her or no, she wasn’t certain, but his presence nearby reassured her nonetheless. His kilt swung, the belted plaid he wore brushing her shoulder as he moved towards her slightly. 

“We bring news from Glencoe. Five morns ago, the men of Clan MacDonald were set upon by Englishmen," John began, "and perhaps thirty died.” A gasp rumbled through the room, and Belle flinched at the sound of steel being drawn. William Keith was a tall man, and as he stood, his voice was thunderous, cracking the very air about Belle’s ears, and though she drew no weapon, she trembled all the same. 

“Stay your hands!” the Earl boomed. 

At once, steel was sheathed, the men taut like bows, and Belle could feel the tension, the very mettle of the air fraught with it. Their spines were made of iron, it seemed, and now, even Belle’s eager voyeur wanted little to do with her, his eyes watchful and ready. The tartan the Earl wore glimmered in the firelight, the greens and blacks catching her eye as Belle surveyed the man before her. Broad shoulders and narrow waist, the Earl looked to be a hard man, one who would just as soon break your neck as welcome you to sit near him. His eyes held a wild look, black and stormy depths searching the face of her companion. His midnight hair was dark, short, and fell into his eyes as he watched his audience.

“And who do ye invite intae my lands, lad?” the Earl commanded once more, eyes clapping to her, studying and staring, and Belle felt as though he might burn right through her. John breathed out, ready to speak, but Belle French was to be brave, now, for her father. 

He had willed it, after all. 

She slipped into full view and William Keith let out a guffaw. 

“A lass! Here, in the room where men’s business is discussed, where blood is spilled an’ wars are planned—”

Belle spoke, and she knew then that she would regret it. 

“I am the daughter of Maurice French, overseer of Ballachulish in the name of the Crown, and witness to the slaughter of Clan MacDonald. My father bade me leave a letter with you. I assume it contains information pertinent to the Jacobite cause.” Such a thing left her reeling, to say it all aloud, but her heart pounded just the same, and sweat pooled at the nape of her neck. 

“And this letter, Englishwoman?” Keith stepped off the dais, his form looming over her; she smelled sweat and perfume at his neck, and her eyes stung with the awful stench of it, “why did yer faither no’ deliver it himself?” Keith’s breath smelled of alcohol and mutton.

“My father is dead. He was murdered,” she whispered, and her eyes, wide and challenging, met the eyes of her interrogator, “by the English. His own kinsmen.” 

By now, an uproar had begun, and the Earl stepped forward, his shoulders drooped with the force of her words. His roughly shorn hair stuck to the side of his neck. “An Englishman killed by the English. Well, for all he did, he was as much an Englishman as any o’ us lads here,” he laughed, baring his teeth, “no Englishman at all.”

Belle balked at the insult, but could not say a word in protest, because there were at least twenty more men than the three of them could take together, and though she was sure her companions could fight, she was not sure they would fight the men that called them brother. Besides that, she was sure to be outmatched by sheer force, let alone skills with a blade. Instead, she fought the bile rising in her throat and dipped her head to undo the satchel at her side. The leather soft between her clumsy fingers, she tugged at the straps until they gave way, retrieving the heavy book from her bag. The pages fell open, the wax seal of her father’s letter red and whole, calling to be undone by blade or hand. Her hand shook as she offered the letter to the Earl, but his bushy eyebrows tugged together in a frown. 

“Read i’,” he barked, seemingly to no one, “ fer the rest of ‘em.”

A beat passed, and the crowd of men parted, and it was a critical eye that Belle surveyed the man that had come forward. Shorter than most, he walked with a limp, and though in polite society Belle had been taught never to stare, the highlands of Scotland were far removed from the posh manners of London seasons. The man in question leaned heavily on a staff of sorts, his eyes warm as he set them upon her. Though Belle was not a stranger to the rude stares of Scotsmen and English suitors who dared get far too bold in their assumption, her cheeks bloomed with a warmth and she found herself unable to look away as he smiled crookedly, his thin lips quirking oddly. For the first time in five days, she felt wholly welcomed, if only by one man. His greying hair was long, curling at the ends, and his eyes tracked her hand as she pushed the letter forward. Spindle-like fingers, thin but strong, gripped the letter. Though she trusted these people more than she had trusted anyone in the last five days, she was loathe to part with anything of her father’s. His hand was warm on hers as he coaxed her to release the document, his fingers clutching as hers as he pulled lightly.

“Lass,” the man chided gently, and his voice was soft and knowing, “I cannae read it if ye don’ let go.” 

Belle felt the heat of her embarrassment lance through her, bubbling up, and she cast her eyes down, unable to look at his too kind eyes with his too soft smile, clasping her hands together as she parted with her father’s last wish. Her fingers quaked as the man deftly appraised the envelope, his forefinger breaking the seal with a flourish. 

Brown eyes tracked across the pages and with a swallow, the man glanced upwards at Keith, the great man grunting. 

“Well?” 

“Well, m’laird,” the man’s brow raised, as though he couldn’t believe what he was reading, “it seems that the entire estate of Maurice French, close advisor to the Crown, has left his estate to the clan. Nine hundred and twenty four pounds sterling in total.” 

Belle’s bated breath rushed out in a gasp, and a murmur of excitement rippled through the suddenly thin oxygen, and Belle did not dare to breathe out, lest her lungs collapse from the shock of the words alone. 

“And?” Keith snarled, pointing a lone finger at Belle, who quivered beneath the strain of all that had just occurred, “what are we tae do wi’ her? An English lass that has no place in English circles is an English lass all the same.” Keith sneered at her, his dark eyes glinting as his eyebrows rose in a challenge. 

“English or no, I’ve brought you this letter, this fortune,” Belle asserted, gulping against the knot of dread that washed over her and sent her nearly trembling like a leaf, “and I deserve—”

“Ye deserve nothin’, m’lady,” Keith stepped forward, pressing close to her, and if she shook then, she was warmed by John’s hand at her back, steady and sure, “ye deserve nothin’, because you have nothin’ of value. Not tae me, not tae anyone.” 

Belle’s level head erupted in a fiery anger and in hindsight, she might once look upon this as either her most brave moment, emboldened by her friends at her back, or her most foolish one, as she, a small English girl with no home or money shouted down a man twice her size wide and three heads taller than she, whose whim she was at the mercy of. But in that moment, her frustration mounted, blotting out the fear, the grief, and the sheer exhaustion that had accompanied her as constant companions on her five day journey. John’s fingers tightened in her blouse in warning, tugging at the sleeve of her shirt. She shook him away, her hand trembling as she pointed at the Earl. 

“I have watched my father die for a cause that I have no part in, and you can take his money, but you will not lend shelter to his only daughter? It is absurd and I’ll not stand for it, Englishwoman or no.” 

Her dismay settled deep in her breast then, festering, and in the aftermath, silence ruled. 

Eyes blackened with a stormy rage that sought nothing but absolute control, William Keith drew back his hand, high, his knuckles taught and his fingers tight with tension, and briefly, Belle watched as the signet ring glinted gold, before her eyes slammed shut and she bowed her head. She heard a shout, and the rasp of steel drawing just behind her.

“M’laird,” the smaller man’s voice sounded, kind and smooth in the burgeoning tension, “perhaps we might… come to a deal, hm?” 

Belle’s eyes opened, widening in shock as she saw that the man had come to her aid, easing his way in between the two of them, facing down her challenger, apparently nonplussed by the action, save for the twitch in his free hand. The Earl’s eyes narrowed, presumably at his aide’s insolence, but his hand dropped to his side in defeat. Had Belle not been astounded at the turn of events, she might have laughed at the way the broad Scotsman folded to his companion when he easily could have tossed him aside. 

“What do ye propose we do, then, Ramsay?” The Earl lifted his chin, jutting it towards Belle, as though she were little more than cattle.

Ramsay stilled, his fist tightening and releasing, nervous and unsure. Belle presumed that he hadn’t thought this far ahead, but his next words were sure and certain, even as his hand shook at his side. Belle wondered for a moment whether he might collapse then and there. His hair resembled spun silver in the torchlight, and she could only just see over his shoulder.

“You say she is English. What if she were a Scot?” 

Belle furrowed her brow in confusion, and she opened her mouth, but the man opened his palm, almost sensing her protest, and wordlessly, with a twitch of his wrist, bade her stay quiet. 

“I am, of course, referring to marriage.” 

Belle French was of a hardy countenance, not likely to fall ill at poorly timed news, but it seemed that the week’s events had taken a toll, and she wavered where she stood, grasping for John and James as she slipped into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment and/or a kudos if you enjoyed this, and feel free to come on over and ask questions on my tumblr blog, a-tardis-at-downton.


	4. IV: Of Motives and Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle discusses her fate with her savior, and later, meets a boy in a bit of a scrape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd intended to get this out far sooner today, but it fell to the wayside and I took a much needed nap instead. Nevertheless, I hope you continue to enjoy the adventures of our hero and heroine.

When she awoke, it was to the hushed brogue of whispers and to the crackle of a distant fire; the whirl of oranges and yellows danced along the stone ceiling, and she drifted along with the flecks of color until she heard her name called.

“M’lady Belle,” a deep, craggy voice beckoned, “’m glad tae see yer awake.”

Belle rose up on her elbows, surveying the close quarters of her room, the glint of the fire illuminating the stony faces of John and James, their fingers steepled in deep contemplation as they stared at her.

“How long—” Belle’s brows furrowed, her eyes heavy with sleep.

“Not five hours, but I have tae warn ye, the ink has already dried on the parchment of the marriage decree. You’ll wed three days from now.”

She shut her eyes, her chest tight with the weight of all that had occurred in the past days. Her heart thundered in her breast, and the heat of the small room was oppressive, sweltering, and in an instant, Belle felt too warm, too constricted.

“Please, excuse me, I need a moment.” Her head spun with the implications of all that had occurred within the stone walls of Dunnottar, and she felt her stomach turn. Just a week ago, she’d been intent upon returning to London, and now here she was, in a strange castle in a largely unfamiliar land, smelling of sweat and grime and salt, betrothed to a complete stranger.

“Wait,” she called out, even as she heaved herself up from the lumpy mattress, head swimming, “who—” she paused, breathing out a steadying sigh, “who must I marry?”

It sounded absurd to her. Her companions paused in their motions, hollow gazes staring back at her.

Belle was reticent to accept an arranged union, but she was bound to be abandoned in a foreign land with no help and no money. She had always thought she might marry for love, but such fanciful imaginings were for little girls, and the world, _her_ world had split wide open, and the yoke of ugliness and deceit had made itself known. Such a marriage was not unique or strange in England, though she herself felt as though she were an oddity here. For a brief moment, anxiety waved over her at the thought that she was an Englishwoman in an area that was universally vested against the English. No longer English enough that the English would take her back, and yet not Scottish enough that the Scots would tolerate her, the world seemed set against her from the start.

“Th’ Ramsay lad, his Lairdship thought it fittin’ tha’ ‘e be th’ one tae marry ye. Punishment, I think.” John’s eyes squinted, narrowing his gaze as he offered at a tight smile in recompense. His burly frame filled the small doorway, and she was hardly comforted by the way his lips quirked upwards. Belle’s stomach wound into a knot.

“Ye’d best wash and dress now, yer ‘usband-tae-be awaits ye, just down th’ hall. Ken ye or nae, he worries all th’ same.”

“Thank you,” her voice was raspy, clotted up with nerves and a nausea she could not swallow— and her hand shook as she dismissed her only companions.

To be auctioned off as chattel, to be seen as less than she was, unsettled her. She had no allegiance now and could seek shelter inside the borders of England no more than she could survive the blustery wastes of a Scottish winter. This union, as unwanted and undesirable as it was, would serve her best. She was lost at sea, lost in the unknowing of it all— she was sick with it.

Belle stumbled over to the wash bin, filling the basin with cool water, unwilling to consider her fate any longer. The rag was coarse and harsh on her tender skin, but she enjoyed the water, the beads of moisture cleansing her of the sweat and grime of five days travel and soothing away the stresses of her fraught mind. Her linen shirt divested, she made quick work of her breeches, shedding them and tossing them to the side. The cool air made her shiver, but she made quick work of her body, washing the dirt and tension away. Her muscles protested when she bent to retrieve a dress, left for her, the limp thing hanging over the arm of a chair, warmed by the fire.

The cloth was simple, the grey fibers rough and itchy as they settled against her pale skin. The cinched waist tugged a fraction, protesting her waistline, and the sleeves barely covered her wrists, but, she supposed it would have to do. She cast one last glance at her bag, knowing it housed the more comfortable, and far more elegant dresses, she was used to.

If she were to be a Scotswoman hence, however, she resolved, best to dress like one.

The long hall stretched out before her, and it was far too quiet for her liking, the windows alight with the night sky, casting streaks of moonlight along the cobbled stones. Belle was struck by how late it must be and followed the crackle and flicker of firelight until she came upon an alcove, the small room beyond adorned with two chairs and a small table, upon which sat two mugs. The sole occupant scraped to his feet upon hearing her soft footfall, though his eyes did not meet her own. His hair hung in front of his face, limp and greying, and his face was pinched, his fist tightening around the neck of his staff.

Belle bade him sit, and she followed suit, watching as he arranged himself comfortably.

“So, you are the noble Ramsay then?” Belle ventured, choosing to stare at the way the embers of the fire before them flew up into the air, winking out a pattern as the sparks flew and drifted on the cold air. Beside her, Ramsay shifted. His arms were crossed in front of him, his staff leaning on the wall nearby, and his left leg was tucked behind his right carefully. The tartan of his kilt was stretched taut with the tension of his position, and she couldn’t help but wonder at the way he tugged absently at the hem, as though he were trying to cover the spiderwebbing of scars that edged up, scrawling beneath the wool plaid.

She let her gaze draw away, flushing at the daring of her own searching mind.

“And you are the Lady Belle,” he murmured, his soft voice warming her and slowing the rapid beat of her heart. The harsh sound of pewter on wood broke the sanctity of the moment, and the wood below the mug darkened with the slosh of ale as he pushed the second mug to her, “Drink, please.”

Though she did not know this man, he had been nothing but kind, risking the wrath of a man far more powerful than he, surely, and so, she did. The ale was bitter on her tongue and it tasted of nothing but wheat and a harsh sour zing that licked at her throat and warmed her through, but set her stomach turning. Belle coughed out as she released the mug with a thump, and for a moment, her eyes stung and watered. Ramsay’s hand twitched as though to reach for her and settled once more on the arm of the chair.

“You are to be my wife, m’lady.” His voice cut through the stillness that settled, and Belle fought a flinch at the plain way he spoke of it.

“I am no more a lady anymore than you ever were, Sir Ramsay. I would be called Belle by my husband.”

He seemed to consider her words, then let out a harsh laugh, high and thin.

“Very well, Belle. You must ken that I want this far less than you do.”

Belle’s heart pounded, sending her reeling, and before she could bite her tongue, she asked, “But then why—?”

Ramsay sighed, his anguish slipping from him as though he were inflated with it, and it filled the corners of the room, pressing in and around her, and Belle felt so small and slight against his prickling pain. She wondered if he felt her pain just as keenly as she could feel his.

“His Lairdship likes to make an example o’ those who defy him. And I’m lucky, by his standards,” Ramsay grimaced, his mouth thin in the light of the fire, and Belle fought the urge to comfort this man, this stranger, and knew then that it would soon be her place to lend him comfort, be it in one way or another. Belle found that perhaps she did not mind the thought so much, not when his sable eyes found hers, crinkled at the corners as though he’d spent too much of his life with his eyes slammed shut in pain. She kept her hands folded in her skirts, toying with a small thread that had come loose beneath her fingernails as he spoke again, “I’m just sorry you have tae pay the price.”

Belle smiled then, her lips pressed upwards in a strange contortion that felt odd to her, felt somehow traitorous to her father, but she watched as Ramsay returned the gesture strangely, lips pressed tightly together and his eyes still stony and unreadable, as if he too were worried that perhaps his smile might lend too much brightness to their present situation.

“I’ll be kind, you ken, I’ll no’ be cruel tae you, Belle,” his accent tripped over his tongue, and Belle felt her cheeks warm at the way she wished he would always say her name with such softness. Ramsay was not particularly handsome, not in the way that was expected of a man. He was short and narrow, his body almost unwieldy, and his nose was too sharp, but Belle found she did not mind, for his dark eyes were kind, above all things, and soft, and he had smiled back. A lull nearly let her drift into her own thoughts, numbing, and her fingers tingled with a content numbness she hadn’t felt in sometime, and perhaps it was the warmth of the castle that did it, or perhaps it was the way Ramsay looked, sad and lonely and alone, just like her, but she needed to fill the quiet between them with hushed words.

“Why, Ramsay?”

Ramsay eyed her then, his shoulders tightening and for a moment, she thought he might run from her, think better of it and face an end of a noose and a snapped neck than look her in the eyes, this Englishwoman who had taken his future from him. He stood abruptly, favoring his bad leg, and gripped the corner of a fur on the edge of his chair, and snapping it through the air. Belle watched as dust motes dotted the space between them, small particles fluttering in and out of the firelight, and suddenly she was draped in the fur, heat suffusing throughout her bones as quickly as Ramsay settled back into his chair with a creak. His shirt cuffs were permanently stained, darkened in the firelight, though by blood or ink she could not tell.

“Everyone deserves t’ live out a full life. You might not be happy, of course, but you’ll be warm, fed, and dare I say— comfortable. Not in the manner you’re used to, but comfortable enough. I cannae give ye th’ life ye had, but I’ll do wh’ I can.”

Belle’s eyes stung with tears, and her heart welled with some bitter draught, beating against the seed of despair that now bloomed there, and perhaps it was hope that resided there, though she no longer knew hope by feel alone, so she let it wash over her, Ramsay’s nervous statement a balm to the ache in her chest.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice cracking, “for everything.”

Ramsay sat, staring into the fire, and soon enough, she followed him, uncertain of what to say, and for a long while, until the sun began to rise and the haze of the early morning mist stretched across the winter sun, neither said a word.

* * *

 

Belle ate in the common hall, the bustle of the women around her comforting, though foreign to her; at her father’s estate, she often ate alone, the cold draft beneath the doors keeping her company, but for a footman in the corner, always ready to assist her should she need it. She rarely did.

Often times, she would bring a book with her, but in the bustle and shouting and laughter of this hall, there would be little peace to be found, even in between the lines of a book. She lifted her spoon to her lips, her stomach protesting the weak, watery oats as she fought to swallow them. It would do no one good if she snubbed the meal. The cook, Eugenia, had narrowed her eyes at Belle’s slight frame, and with a huff, had given her an extra ladle-full of the grey mess. Here, in the northlands, months from knowing the feel of sunlight and the peace of a spring day, the dead of winter was harsh and barren, brush wasting away into naught but dried up sticks pointing out of the snowy expanse, steep slopes of ice glittering mockingly down at her as she’d travelled those long days.

She knew the burden of another mouth to feed, saw it in the eyes of the women and children who boldly stared, their eyes tracking her every movement. Belle was not welcome, that much she could sense, and so, with one last rueful spoonful, she rose, intent upon finding the kitchens. She may not be welcome, she reasoned, but she could be useful.

The great stone halls were a maze, a path she could not decipher, and every corridor looked remarkably like the last. After what seemed an age, she finally discovered a path she hadn’t seen before and followed it, keeping close to the walls, despite the bright winter light that sifted through the windows and lit her way. She remained so very single minded on her task that she did not see the small figure that darted out in front of her until she had bowled him over.

The boy met the stone of the floor with a hollow knock that could only be emitted by children, or so it seemed, and she dropped her spoon and bowl with a clatter, reaching out to help the boy. His eyes were filled with tears.

He was a handsome young lad, not beyond ten summers, and his dark curls lay about his head oddly, as though someone had tried desperately to comb out the frizzy locks, but it was his shining eyes that stood out to her. Deep brown, like the rich leaves that fell last on the trees, just before winter, like chocolate, a rare treat she’d only ever had when she was seven summers old— his eyes saw through her. Belle stooped down to examine him, satisfied that she could see no immediate injury, and offered her apologies.

“I am so very sorry,” her voice quaked with nerves, for she did not know what station the lad held, but she was genuine, “are you alright?”

“Yes, m’lady,” he spoke, and even as he reassured her, he rubbed at his wrist, the one to take most of the weight, “’m fine.”

“You’re sure?” Belle pleaded, imploring him to speak the truth.

“Yes, I promise. My papa told me never to lie, and I don’t.” The boy grinned, mouth crooking just so and his toothy smile eased her racing heart. Belle bit out a laugh, and her nerves eased further.

“Your papa is a smart man, then.”

Her chest squeezed, the pain of losing her own father still ripe.

The child leaned in, as if imparting a great secret to her, and she could smell the jam on his breath and see the sticky red around his mouth, “He _is_ smart; he can read. He’s going to teach me soon.”

Belle’s heart broke. She had been so fortunate, to grow up with tutors and mentors who taught her everything, from reading to etiquette to how to truss her own corset, but these people here, they were without opportunity, without means, and thus, without fantastical worlds and heavy inks and beautiful calligraphy, and her heart ached for it.

“My name’s Baelfire.”

His clothes were tattered and threadbare, though his eyes were bright and his cheeks rosy with good health. Belle suspected that perhaps the wear on his clothing was more to do with his rough play, from the way he had vaulted down the hall at her. The knees of his breeches were soft and dulled, reminding her that he was but a boy, prone to falls and scrapes of all kinds, and she beamed at him. Before she’d been thrust into a life of primness, of polite smiles and terse nods, she’d been much like him, running headlong down long halls from the kitchen, pastry sugar ringing her lips as she snuck away, quick feet carrying her far from Cook’s red-faced bellows.

“Baelfire, I’m Belle,” she offered her hand, and he shook, his hand small but firm in her own as they bobbed together in the space between them, “well, you’re very lucky indeed to have a papa to teach all of these marvelous things.”

A great ruckus arose, the clamor of boots on stone followed shortly, and a thunderous cry came from just down the hall that Baelfire had come bolting down and his eyes widened comically. The young boy beamed up at her one last time and launched himself off of the cold floor and off down the hallway.

“Nice to meet you, Belle!” Baelfire called out as he rounded the corner. Stooping to retrieve her bowl and spoon, she sighed against the pain in her back as she straightened, staring down the long corridor.

She still did not know where the kitchen was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and please feel free to leave a comment, kudos, or come chat about it on my tumblr!

**Author's Note:**

> This AU was inspired by my recent trip to the Highland Games on the coast. I hope you enjoyed it, and please, review, leave kudos, and feel free to come chat with me on tumblr! 
> 
> I am hoping to post chapter two very soon.


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